


effanineffable

by walkingsaladshooter



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, CATS Cast AU, F/M, Yes you read that right, no i will not apologize - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21910867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkingsaladshooter/pseuds/walkingsaladshooter
Summary: In which Rey Johnson and Ben Solo are both cast in featured roles in Hanna City Playhouse's production of Cats, but their characters are definitely not supposed to be eye-fucking this much.Or: it started as a joke but then I decided to actually write it
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo
Comments: 31
Kudos: 90





	effanineffable

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few things that led to this fic happening:
> 
> 1\. I love the Cats musical but expected the Cats movie to be a trainwreck  
> 2\. I saw the Cats movie the day after I saw TROS  
> 3\. To my pleasant surprise, I really loved the Cats movie  
> 4\. The Mistoffelees/Victoria stuff was cute as hell and gave me big Reylo feels because I have a one-track mind  
> 5\. Munkustrap? Is hot in the movie? Don’t @ me, it’s true
> 
> Originally I had meant to have Ben playing Mr. Mistoffelees to lean into that dynamic that sparked this, but let’s be honest, Ben would be cast as Munkustrap over Mistoffelees any day of the week. Also Munkustrap? Is hot in the movie? And Ben is hot so you know, here we are.
> 
> This fic is unbeta’d, so very pointless, and so very delighting to me. The production being rehearsed in this fic is a shameless mashup of elements from the actual stage show and the movie because listen, this is fanfic, it’s all made up and it’s all for fun and I can do what I want, damn it.
> 
> Also, if you’re not already aware, Cats is a very horny show by design, so like, I cannot be blamed for any of this.
> 
> Final caveats: while I was a theatre major in college, I never managed to act professionally. I’m also not a trained dancer and am only a base-level competent singer. I’m winging it and possibly making things up because this fic is not about accurately portraying professional theatre (although I would love to do that), it’s about WHAT IF REY AND BEN WERE IN CATS TOGETHER AND FELL IN LOVE?
> 
> Have fun. These kids sure are.
> 
> Dedicated to crossingwinter, aionimica, thewayofthetrashcompactor, Yours_Truly_Commander_Shepard, and jeeno2 for enabling me <3

Philosophically, Rey dislikes being alone. (It’s not so much that her brain gets too noisy. It’s kind of the opposite. A hollowing down, emptying out, carving an aching loneliness into her that leaves her feeling lost and echoing.) But practically—and on occasion, and when it’s her choice—aloneness can give her the space she needs to process.

Which is why she’s spent most of her lunch breaks for the past month hidden in the alcove of a back stairwell of the Hanna City Playhouse. Nobody really comes back here most of the time. She can curl up on the broad windowsill (rather like a cat; increasingly like a cat, as time goes on, in fact) and eat her sandwich and read her battered old copy of _Jane Eyre_. Some of the page corners are nearly tearing because she’s read it, and consequently dog-eared her place, so many times, but she rather thinks she’ll keep this copy until it falls apart. And then she’ll tape it back together and keep reading it.

Rey likes familiarity. It’s comforting. Which has made the past month difficult, if immensely rewarding.

Her phone pings to tell her it’s time to head back. She turns and slides down from the windowsill, still reading as she makes her way down the staircase. (A terrible idea. She can’t very well _développé_ with a broken ankle. But she also can’t leave Jane until Jane has left Lowood.)

The back hallways of the Playhouse are dim, lit only by watery sunlight streaming in through the tall, narrow windows. For a little while longer, Rey is able to let herself process and prepare. Because she has two _pas de deux_ this afternoon, and she’s not especially ready for either of them. For very different reasons.

The morning was split between vocal rehearsals and movement training, but the afternoon is portioned off into sections of time to dig into detail on various solos and featured group choreographies. And Rey, lucky lucky Rey, has several of those.

“It _is_ lucky,” she murmurs to herself as she nears the rehearsal studio. She loves _Cats_. She’s dreamed of being cast at the Playhouse since she was six.

But it’s also the first big thing she’s done. And—well. There are other things to be nervous about.

The studio is brightly lit, the sprung wooden floor gleaming. Without the entire ensemble, it always feels empty. Larma, the choreographer, is making notes in her binder off in the corner, and Dopheld is warming up at the barre, and that’s it.

The young man in question smiles his shy smile when he sees Rey. “Good lunch?”

She nods, dropping her bag along the wall and quickly changing into her split soles. “You?”

“Not bad. I tagged along with Jess and Tallie and all of them to share some Ethiopian food.”

“Oh.” Rey jogs over to the barre and keeps lightly jogging in place, getting her blood flowing again after the break. “That sounds good. Blows my tuna sandwich out of the water.”

Dopheld shrugs good-naturedly and lifts his ankle to the barre, leaning into the stretch.

They have a few more minutes before they’re scheduled to start, and once Rey is feeling warmer, she wakes up her various joints and muscle groups, rolling her shoulders and ankles and wrists, flowing through lunges and hamstring stretches, undulating through spinal flexions. By the time Larma calls them over, she’s feeling warm and supple.

Larma is kind but refreshingly direct, and she has them move right into the _pas de deux_. They’re not dancing to music yet; their pace is still slowed while they work on getting the lifts properly blocked and fluid.

“Connect the moments, Rey,” she says. “You’re bending and lifting both in response to his touch.”

“Sorry,” Rey mutters as she turns her back to Dopheld again, raising her arms. “I don’t like going upside-down.”

“I know, but your hesitation is showing and disconnecting the moments. Flow with it, please.”

Rey nods, as much to Dopheld as to Larma. They start again: Dopheld’s hands dragging down her back as Rey arches, his grip on her hips pulling them back and down as she bends forward and readies her legs to push off. His grip firms and she’s only half a second behind him in pressing up off the ground, lifting her chest and arching back as he lifts her hips up to his shoulder and she feels her upper body pivot backwards.

Her head spins as he holds her hips above his head and she hangs down behind his back, carefully spreading her arms and keeping her chest lifted to avoid being dead weight. She needs to straighten her right leg; she should have done it when she kicked off; she can feel he can’t balance her quite right with both her knees bent.

Swallowing with a dry throat, she shakily extends her leg. Only then does Dopheld complete his slow turns before carefully lowering her hips down onto his shoulder.

“All right?” Larma asks.

“Yes. Sorry about that leg.”

“Don’t apologize, just keep going.”

“All right, Rey?” Dopheld asks.

“Yeah. I’m ready to come up.”

He draws one hand down the back of her thigh, perfunctorily, to block it in. The press of his other hand into the crease of her hip is her signal to engage her core even harder and lift herself while he helps her pivot up over his shoulder.

Everything rushes, but smoothly, as she lowers herself into his arms. One hand splays on her stomach, the other holds her straightened leg, and her back is lifted and graceful as they lower into the fish dive. This Rey can do. This part Rey loves. Lifts are fun—just not ones where she flips upside-down.

“Better,” Larma says, and Dopheld sets Rey down carefully. “You’re still hesitating, Rey, but that connected much better.” She turns her cool gaze to Dopheld. “Mitaka, I know we’re still blocking, but a hint of sensuality wouldn’t be amiss. If Victoria’s solo is her coming of age, the Jellicle Ball _pas de deux_ with Mistoffelees is her consummation.” She lifts one eyebrow. “Please let’s make sure it’s enjoyable for her.”

Rey laughs. Dopheld’s cheeks pinken slightly, but he smiles and nods.

“Again, please.”

It’s not an especially long rehearsal, with how simple the choreography is. But they drill it many times, until Rey begins to be desensitized to the anxiety the lift produces. The little rush of uncomfortable adrenaline becomes as routine as the lift of her ribcage and the positioning of her feet.

It’s a welcome change. Of her two partnered dances, this is the one that’s been making her nervous by way of the technical aspects. She’s known those would be drilled out of her sooner or later. It feels good to know it seems it’ll be sooner.

But when they wrap and Larma tells her to take five before her next rehearsal block, the nerves come flooding back in a rush.

Her other _pas de deux_ is next. And while she’s confident in the technicalities of this one—there are other things to make her adrenaline spike.

———

Ben Solo is twenty-eight years old and has been dancing for twenty-five of them, and it shows. His shoulders are broad, his waist narrow, his thighs strong. The grace in his spine, his hands, the arch of his neck is entrancing. He can tell a story impeccably with his body and eyes. Warm, dark, expressive, penetrating—his eyes can cast his story out across an entire theatre.

Rey knows because she’s seen him dance in half a dozen shows and ballets since she moved to Hanna City. But this is the first time she’s seen him sing in a musical.

Or, well… “seen.” Since she’s in it, too.

The fact that his voice is as beautiful as his dancing is truly, truly unfair. So is the fact that when she met him on the first day of rehearsals, he said, “So you’re the girl I’ve heard so much about,” in this way that managed to sound dry and fond at the same time, somehow. And when they shook hands, it was like electricity sparked through her fingers.

Rey has been careful to avoid him outside of rehearsals, even though she knows he runs in the same circles as Poe and, therefore, as Finn, and she could easily end up at brunch or a bar or a market day with him if she isn’t careful.

So she is. Careful.

Because those warm, dark, expressive, penetrating eyes seem to fixate on her an awful lot at rehearsals, and it’s a welcome feeling that she has no idea what to do with.

It would’ve been easier if he was playing pretty much anyone else. Macavity, maybe. He’s certainly capable of channeling that kind of intensity. But instead, he’s Munkustrap. Instead, he’s the leader, the protector after Old Deuteronomy. Instead, he’s the one who teaches Victoria about the Jellicle cats.

Which, in this production, involves a _pas de deux_ during The Naming of Cats.

She’s moving through relevé combinations at the barre when the studio door opens and closes behind her, and she swears she can feel that gaze on her back as she opens her right arm into second position.

Rey makes herself keep breathing normally and moving smoothly through her exercises while Ben warms up somewhere behind her. She wonders briefly if he’s looking at her ass. Her ass probably looks good right now. She shouldn’t be worrying if Ben Solo likes her ass. But. Here she is.

Biting her lip, she gives in to her impulse and brushes her toes along the floor, lifting her right leg straight up and holding it, toes pointed to the ceiling.

Somewhere behind her, someone clears their throat. She’s pretty sure it isn’t Larma.

“All right,” Larma calls, and Rey almost rolls her ankle. Only her grip on the barre saves her from falling on the very ass she was trying to show off. “Let’s start from when you break off from the ensemble, please.”

Finally, Rey turns and meets Ben’s gaze. She feels blood rush to her cheeks because his eyes are all but burning at her. She bites her lip, drops her gaze, and takes a quick little chasse over to Larma, a bit skittishly. A bit catlike. Which is appropriate and has nothing at all to do with trying to get out from under Ben’s heavy gaze.

She crouches on the floor, rolling her shoulders and neck to slide herself into that catlike attitude. Ben kneels beside her, a feline liquidity in his body as he stretches his arms in front of him, hands splaying on the floor. “Straight to business today, then?” he murmurs to her in that dry way he does.

“I had my other _pas de deux_ before this and have my solo before I go home,” she murmurs back. “Lots going on.”

“Trust me a little.” His voice is low and the timbre of it is warm. “I’ve got you.”

And that—that should not make Rey’s belly twinge like it does.

She swallows but doesn’t answer.

“From ‘profound meditation,’ please,” Larma says, standing across the floor, poised to start the music.

Rey takes a deep breath and blinks her eyes wide open, adjusts the set of her jaw into something softer, and eases into being Victoria. Ben, in an instant, is Munkustrap, turning to her from the ensemble that, presently, is only there in spirit. He’s brave, kind, principled; he’s sympathetic to Victoria’s innocence and ignorance both, and he’s here to help her learn.

The music begins.

_When you notice a cat in profound meditation,  
_ _The reason, I tell you, is always the same:_

Ben’s hand tucks lightly under Rey’s chin, tipping her face up towards him as he stage-whisper chants the lines. She lifts her shoulders, shifting closer to him, her line of sight following his hand as he reaches up to the ceiling, the sky, the moon.

_His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation_

And he’s turning back to her, spine slithering as his legs splay backwards, one hand opening to her. Rey tilts her head smoothly and lays her hand in his.

“ _Of the thought._ ” He pulls her up, she rises to her feet, her heart does a funny little flip in her chest. “ _Of the thought._ ” He draws her across his chest, both of them look up the line of his arm towards the sky again, she can feel his body heat at her back. “ _Of the thought_ —” He draws down his arm and slinks to the side, she turns towards him, arms hands legs feet moving in catlike affectation, her expression open. “— _of his name._ ”

This part is barely choreography. It’s blocking with flair. There’s no reason for her heart to be beating as quickly as it is.

Ben’s longish, dark hair is braided back from his forehead. She wonders if he braided it himself. When he learned to French braid. How soft his hair might be under her fingers if she braided it for him.

Her lips move as she begins to recite the final lines with him.

_His ineffable_   
_Effable_   
_Effanineffable_   
_Deep and inscrutable singular Name_

Each word is punctuated with an unctuous shift in her _port de bras_ , the tilt of her head, the arch of her back as Ben moves alongside her. It’s meant to be that Victoria is being swept up in the mystery of the concept of the Name. That Munkustrap is guiding her into this new world as she begins to blossom before she moves into her solo, where she metaphorically comes of age.

But Ben’s hands hoving an inch away from her arms, his face tipped alongside hers, doesn’t feel like a kind guide. Not if the heat pooling at her center is any indication.

Innocence, she reminds herself. He’s your—your teacher, in a way. Mistoffelees is your partner, or will be. Innocence. Opening to—to experience.

“ _Name, name, name, name, name…_ ”

Ben’s breath is warm on the back of her neck and oh god, they haven’t even properly started their dance yet.

She’s a professional. She can do this.

It’s not a long bit of choreography. Just sort of an endcap on the experience they’ve built at the end of the song. Rey leans into an arabesque, one leg long behind her, one arm gracefully following it and the other snaking straight in front of her, some strange marriage of balletic poise and feline shimmying. Ben’s hands find her waist—god, one of them spans nearly the entire width of her stomach, his fingers are so long—and he turns her gracefully and tucks one hand around the top of her thigh. She doesn’t even have to think about the timing—somehow, with Ben, she knows the moment he’s moving to lift her, and she lifts her back and doubles the efforts in her abdominals as he scoops her supporting leg up from the floor and lifts her up, around, turning and lowering her back to the ground. Between his control and her poise in her legs and torso, she touches down light as a feather, lolling her head to one shoulder.

Ben’s hands splay in front of her. His arms lift at her sides. The cage of his arms around her passes upward and she lifts her arms overhead to accommodate him, blinking rapturously up at the ceiling, at the sky, at the moon. She’s trying very hard to think of the great mystery of her Name as she lowers her arms, hands tucking under her chin, posture ready and nearly quivering. But all she’s thinking about is the heat of Ben’s hands against her stomach.

Larma pauses the music. Rey lets her hands fall, feeling more winded than the choreography should merit. Behind her, Ben clears his throat again.

She doesn’t dare glance back at Ben, not when her heart is already doing funny things. So she watches Larma, who peers at them carefully for a moment. “It looks beautiful,” she finally says. “Your timing is excellent, and Rey, your positions are elegant. But... “ She pauses again. Larma usually doesn’t search for her words too much. “Munkustrap isn’t your mate,” she finally says. “Mistoffelees is. Or will be, at any rate. Your chemistry is lovely to watch, but try to keep your focus on the Jellicle mysteries moreso than on Munkustrap himself.”

Rey’s face burns. “Okay,” she says, because what else is she supposed to say? Her choreographer just called her out on being horny for her dance partner. At least the whole ensemble isn’t here to see it.

Kindly, Larma raises her eyebrows. “Let’s go again. You’re both excelling at the choreography. Focus on character, please.”

Even though it would make dancing harder, Rey wishes her hair was down right now, not pulled back in her usual three buns. If it was down, she could let it curtain across her face as she crouches back to her starting point so Ben wouldn’t see how pink her cheeks must be.

But he does, because he glances at her when he gets into position.

He doesn’t say anything, though. Not until Larma starts to music and his warm voice huskily recites “ _When you notice a cat in profound meditation_ …”

———

It’s unbecoming for a ballerina to bite her nails, Rey imagines. So it’s probably good she went the musical theatre path rather than the ballet path, considering that her fingernails are a chewed-down wreck.

She’s curled up in her alcove, reading _Jane Eyre_ , her sandwich finished and her thumbnail in her mouth and, to be honest, her mind not absorbing a single word she’s reading.

Last night she had gone home wrung-out and mentally scattered, dodging Finn’s questions in favor of a hot shower and immediately crawling into bed because maybe if she coccooned herself tightly enough in her blankets, she’d never have to look Ben or Larma in the eye again.

But fate was not so kind. Morning rehearsal was the full ensemble for Jellicle Songs, which meant more interaction with Ben. It was impossible to avoid his eyes—her willpower is strong, but not that strong. _He_ didn’t look embarrassed about yesterday. If anything, he was only burning more at her. In that number, he doesn’t touch her except her hand a couple times, but she swore she could feel the full heat of his body in that simple touch.

She’s in _so_ much trouble.

“Rey.” Larma leaned near her during a break. “Remember what we discussed yesterday?”

Her capillaries betrayed her again as her cheeks flushed. “Right. Sorry.”

“Discussed what?” Kaydel asked, innocently enough that Rey believed it was innocently meant.

Poe gestured at Ben and Rey. “Probably that Munkustrap and Victoria aren’t supposed to be eye-fucking.”

“Shut up, Poe,” Rey grumbled before chugging some water. Too much. It was definitely going to hurt her stomach when they started dancing again.

But over Poe’s head, she caught Ben’s eye. He was—he was smiling at her. A small, wry smirk of a smile.

It made her stomach flip for reasons that had nothing to do with the water.

And now she’s curled in her alcove, pretending to read her book while her mind whirls from embarrassment to attempts at analyzing that little smirk to imagining what that smirking, sweetly-swinging mouth would feel like against her lips.

“Good book?”

She nearly drops her book as she whirls around. Ben is standing there on the landing, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, watching her. “Jesus, Ben, how’d you get up here that quietly?”

He shrugs, glancing upwards. “Studying how to move like a cat for the past month.”

“Touche.” He’s just… standing there. Staring at her. It’s making her heart do that funny flip. So, not sure what else to do, she swings her legs down and scoots over, patting the ledge next to her.

Ben crawls up next to her smoothly and leans back against the window. “You come here often?”

A little bark of a laugh escapes Rey. “Is that a line?”

His gaze flicks down her face for a second, then back up to her eyes. “Do you want it to be?”

Oh. She—oh. Rey bites her lip, feeling her cheeks flush. Again. She’s never blushed so much in her life. “I usually come up here for lunch. It’s kind of nice to be able to clear my head.”

“How do you like the Playhouse so far, then?”

“It’s not actually overwhelming. Just…” She sighs. “I get nervous.”

“You shouldn’t.” He leans his head a little closer to her. Her window alcove feels much smaller with all six-foot-three of Ben Solo sharing it. “You’re an incredible dancer, Rey. And funny. And sweet.” He glances to the side, not quite rolling his eyes. “Also a hellion. But still sweet.”

Her lips part and for a moment all she can do is stare at him. “Why are you telling me this?”

And Ben’s eyes are so soft, so warm and soft and expressive. His hand is right next to hers on the ledge. “Because you deserve to feel good about yourself.”

Rey bites her lip, blinking hard as her eyes suddenly feel hot and damp. Ben’s gaze drifts across her face. Something thrums under her skin when she shifts her hand to lay her fingers across his. “I want it to be,” she says. And when he furrows her brow back at her, perplexed, she clarifies, “I want it to be a line.” She licks her lips. “Please.”

And Ben—he breaks into a smile, wide and true. He turns over his hand so he can close it around hers. “Good. I was hoping you would.”

Rey grins back at him. “Thank god. Now I don’t have to have Larma taken out for betraying my secrets.”

Slowly, almost cautiously, Ben lifts her hand to his lips and kisses the back of it, still smiling and gazing at her. It’s like electricity rushes under her skin. “You looked so embarrassed every time she mentioned it.”

“Well, yeah. I knew we had chemistry, but I had no idea if you—”

“I do, Rey. I very much do.”

Her breath catches. The sincerity in his eyes is kind of overwhelming.

“Well,” she says, “me too.”

Ben grins again. It makes him look boyish. He leans his head back against the window, lowering their hands to rest on the ledge again. “So what kind are you? Practical? Pedantical? Fanatical?”

The reference makes her laugh. “I don’t know. Critical, maybe? I can hold a mean grudge.” She peers over at him. “You—I’m going to guess you’re a pedantical cat.”

“You’re not wrong.” He turns his head, leaning a little closer to her. “Though I was hoping you’d think I’m romantical.”

“Hm.” Rey lets her gaze fall lazily to his lips, then back up to his eyes, which have taken on an undeniable smolder. “I think I’d need to be convinced.”

“Really.”

“Mm hm.”

Ben brings his other hand under her chin, tipping her face up. It’s nothing like the way he does when they’re rehearsing. It’s warmer. More intimate. “Permission to convince?” And the look in her eyes must tell him everything he needs, because he lowers his face to hers and kisses her.

Rey’s chest flutters, stomach swoops, skin sings. He kisses like he dances, strong and full of grace. Her fingers find his cheek, stroke back into his hair. (It is, in fact, beautifully soft. She immediately wants to braid it.) And when he pulls away, it’s only the smallest of distances, resting his forehead against hers and rubbing his thumb lightly against her jaw.

“Convinced?”

His voice is low, warm, sweet. Rey traces her fingers along his jawline, brushes her thumb against his lower lip. “I don’t know. I may need more extensive convincing than we have time for right now.”

Something dark and honeyed passes over his eyes. Ben dips his head lower and presses a slow kiss against the top of her neck, just under her ear, and Rey shivers. “How about tonight?” he asks, lips brushing her skin. “After rehearsal. Let me buy you dinner and—convince you some more.”

And Rey smiles, winding her hand into his hair. But only the one, because despite the heat in his eyes and his lips on her neck, they’re still holding hands, simple and sweet and innocent. And that might be what makes her smile most of all. “Yes,” she says. “Very much yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> P.S. Don't be afraid to come say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/nuanceismyjam), [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.io/nuanceismyjam), or [Tumblr](http://nuanceismyjam.tumblr.com/)! (Which I use in that order, in terms of frequency.)


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